


Mission Submission

by emptydistractions



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Creepy Brock Rumlow, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2020, M/M, Object Insertion, Rape/Non-con Elements, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28465041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptydistractions/pseuds/emptydistractions
Summary: When a blizzard traps Brock Rumlow and Jack Rollins in an isolated Hydra safehouse, the future starts to look bleak and boring. With evac still two days away, and not so much as a damn radio to pass the time, they'll have to get creative.Lucky for them, they've got the Asset and enough fucked-up ideas to see them through.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Jack Rollins
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43
Collections: Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2020





	Mission Submission

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Defiler_Wyrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/gifts).



> This is my entry to the 2020 Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange! My giftee was Defilerwyrm. I hope you like it!

“Un-fucking-believable. Two days! Two fucking days!”

Jack pulled down the blinds that covered the window, rubbing away the condensation on the inside of the glass with one finger as he stared at the dismal landscape. Behind him, Rumlow continued to rage at nothing and everything, but Jack ignored him, watching the snow fall fast and thick. As far as he could see, everything looked uniformly grey, the blizzard blotting out the pale winter sun. Even the horizon had disappeared beneath the snow drifts.

“Two days in this shithole!”

As Jack turned to look at him, Rumlow threw down the heavy sat phone, and Jack watched as it skittered across the floor.

Shithole might have been a bit much. While it certainly wasn’t the best place he’d ever stayed, as far as safehouses went, it wasn’t bad. Jack’s first apartment had been infinitely worse. At least this place had working heat and didn’t come with nosy neighbors.

 _Or any kind of neighbors at all,_ Jack thought, with just a hint of morbid amusement. They were in the middle of fucking nowhere, some mostly forgotten Hydra safehouse stuck halfway up a mountain in Siberia. The isolation combined with the blizzard raging outside was the reason they were trapped here for the foreseeable future.

“You know,” Rumlow said angrily as he dropped down onto the already-sagging couch, “this shit wouldn’t happen if people just learned to do their fucking jobs.”

Jack took one last glance out at the driving snow before he turned away from the window. Joining Rumlow in the cabin’s living room, he dropped heavily onto an armchair and looked around the small space. There wasn’t much to see though; the cabin was depressingly sparse, outfitted with only the essentials.

Sighing, Jack kicked his booted feet up onto the dented coffee table and looked at Rumlow. “Why should they wanna?”

Rumlow looked so annoyed at Jack’s question that it was almost comical. Jack had to repress the urge to roll his eyes. This was the first two-man mission they’d been on with each other in a long time, and he’d forgotten exactly how exhausting Rumlow’s attitude could be. It didn’t bode well for his immediate future. 

“Well, you’re not exactly the world’s most motivating boss,” Jack said.

“Excuse me?”

Jack exhaled loudly and settled back into his chair. He already regretted saying anything. “No one wants to work for a hardass. You gotta give ‘em a break sometimes. You know, all work and no play, etcetera etcetera.” Rumlow glared at him. “A little _panem et circenses_ , maybe?”

The look on Rumlow’s face said he thought Jack was an idiot more clearly than if he’d screamed it. “I’m not trying to prevent an uprising here, Rollins. I just want people to give a shit about doing their jobs right.”

“See, now that,” Jack pointed a finger at him, “is your problem. You think everyone’s like you. Doing the right thing because they _believe_. What you don’t get is that no one working hourly for Hydra gives a shit about your new world order.” He grinned in a way that he hoped was annoying. “Me, for example.”

“You, as in a useless asshole?”

“A practical one,” Jack replied. Outside, the wind howled and snow continued to fall. “No way in hell would I be risking my life in an apocalypse-level blizzard so that my jackass boss can get home a few days earlier.”

Rumlow opened his mouth, mostly likely to bitch some more, but Jack had had just about all of that that he could take for one afternoon. He pushed himself up off the armchair abruptly, headed for the small attached kitchen. “I’m gonna go see if this place has anything to drink.” Lord knows, if he was going to survive two days with a pissed-off Rumlow, he was going to need it.

The kitchen, at least, was stocked, even if the rest of the house fell flat on hospitality. There were cabinets full of non-perishables, stacks of MRE’s (his short stint in the army warned him away from those), and to his great delight, several bottles of mid-shelf whiskey. He even found a few skunked beers in the fridge. He made sure to swipe a few, along with one of the bottles of whiskey and two dusty glasses on his way out.

The sound of Rumlow cursing from the living room as he fiddled with his useless cell was enough to steer Jack towards the back bedrooms. He popped open one of the beers and took a long pull, grimacing. Might as well see what the rest of the cabin held before he went back.

Past the living room and kitchen there didn’t seem to be that much cabin left to explore. There were two bedrooms, each about the size of a closet, with a connecting bathroom in between. In the drawers and closets he found odds and ends left over from what had to be at least a dozen different missions. Everything smelt vaguely of dust and mildew, and the ceiling above the shower leaked. _Huh_. Maybe Rumlow had been right to call it a shithole after all.

Pulling open the last drawer in one of the cheap nightstands, Jack grinned triumphantly. Along with the usual bedside clutter of batteries and boxes of tissue was a lone pack of cigars. He whistled long and low as he checked them out; Cubans, if the label was correct, and not bad quality either. What the fuck Cuban cigars were doing this far out he had no clue, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune. Quickly, he thrust the pack into his pocket as he stood and dusted off the knees of his tac pants before turning back towards the living room.

He nearly jumped out his skin, curse words pushing past his lips automatically as he nearly walked directly into the Asset. It stood eerily still, just to the side of the doorway. Probably exactly where Rumlow had left it, but Jack hadn’t really been paying attention at the time. Now, already having scared the daylights out of him, the thing stood stock-still, its face an emotionless mask, dark eyes staring straight ahead at the wall. Jack repressed the urge to shiver as he looked at it. The damn thing had always unsettled him. He certainly didn’t understand Rumlow’s preoccupation with it. Jack barely wanted to work with it, much less fuck it. Just last week he’d watched the Asset rip an unfortunate security guard limb from limb in less than a minute. The whole thing had been a god awful mess.

Jack pulled a face at it, but got zero response; the thing might as well have been a statue.

“Fuck off,” he told it. Again, no response. And then… Jack had an idea. Later, he would probably wonder what twisted corner of his mind had birthed this particular bit of debauchery, but for now he grinned. _Et circenses_ , indeed.

It was only the work of a few minutes for him to gather up some choice items from around the cabin. Anything that he thought might prove useful for keeping them entertained. He bundled up everything in a blanket off one of the beds and threw it over his shoulder before returning to the living room

Rumlow had quieted down somewhat, and apparently started to accept that they were stuck here, at least for a little while. His arms were crossed tightly against his chest, his feet up on the coffee table. He looked up as Rollins entered the room.

“Merry Christmas,” Jack said, his voice dry and sarcastic as he tossed Rumlow the whiskey bottle, followed by one of the glasses.

Rumlow caught both neatly and wasted no time in pouring himself a drink. Jack dropped his blanket of goodies down onto the floor before sitting down in the chair again to pour himself a generous measure of whiskey as well. Probably more than he should’ve, given they were technically still on the job, but fuck it. Wasn’t like they were getting paid overtime for this shit. Next, he dug out the pack of cigars, wrestling one from its packaging and holding it out as a silent peace offering.

Rumlow looked less than impressed. “I’d rather suck on a tailpipe.”

“I’d rather you did too,” Jack muttered partly under his breath, not really caring whether Rumlow heard him or not.

He dug his lighter out of his back pocket. It was old, engraved silver. It had belonged to his father and his grandfather before that, and when he used it to light himself a cigar, he could have sworn he could hear the crack of his grandfather’s belt, feel the ghost of its sting across his backside. Jack took a puff, the earthy, woody scent filling his nose and mouth. His grandfather had always sworn that Jack would die young and unaccomplished. He’d been right about part of it, Jack figured. He just wasn’t sure which part yet.

Shaking himself from memories best left forgotten, Jack took another puff and said without further fanfare, “I got an idea for a game to pass the time.”

Rumlow looked at him suspiciously, half his whiskey already gone and color rising fast in his cheeks. “I ain’t about to lose half my wallet to your card-sharking bullshit.”

Jack pointedly ignored him. He whistled, like one would call for a dog, and the Asset appeared in the doorway, face dark and stony. Using one booted foot, Jack pushed the coffee table out from the middle of the room. The heavy table screeched its way across the old hardwood floor.

“Come in here,” he said to the Asset, jerking his head toward the now empty space. When it was where Jack wanted it, he said instead, “Now strip.”

It was the first time the Asset had paused. Jack stared it down, a second order on the tip of his tongue, when the Asset seemed to come to its senses. _Interesting_. He’d thought the thing was supposed to be wiped between each mission, but given Rumlow’s (and others) proclivities for extracurricular activities with it, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that it retained something now and then. Some things must cut deep enough to leave at least the ghost of an impression.

Methodically, the Asset removed its tac vest and pants, folding them neatly and piling them atop its boots before adding its underwear to the pile as well. When it was done, it stood straight and still. Its body was well-muscled but pale, its soft cock was nestled between its legs in a thick patch of pubic hair. It’s face had once again gone flat, blank.

“Knees and elbows,” Jack told it next.

Immediately, the Asset dropped to its knees on the hardwood floor, before leaning forward, placing its forearms flat against the ground. Jack kicked at it, moving its limbs until he was happy with its positioning. In the end, the Asset knelt, head tucked, long dark hair hanging across its face like a curtain, ass up in the air. Despite the running heater, the cabin was still chillier than was comfortable, and gooseflesh ripped across its skin as the Asset shivered. For the first time, Jack looked back at Rumlow. There was a gleeful look on his face that hadn’t been there before, and Jack silently congratulated himself on a good idea.

“So the game,” Jack said, and Rumlow sat forward in interest, his mostly empty whiskey glass held loosely in his hand. Jack put the tip of his boot on one pale asscheek, grinding down hard and pulling it to the side, exposing the Asset’s small, pink hole. “More like a contest, really. Whoever gets the largest thing in wins.”

Rumlow grinned. “Anything?”

Jack nodded. “Anything.” He jerked his head toward the blanket and the items he’d collected from around the house. “I brought us some stuff to get started.”

Rumlow started to stand, and Jack held out a finger. “But,” he continued, “there’s a catch. First one to tear it loses. Think of it like a fucked up blackjack. Go big or bust.” He chuckled at his own joke, and Rumlow joined in.

“You know,” Rumlow said, looking at Jack with something like admiration in his eyes. “You might be more like me than you think, Rollins.”

Jack shrugged and moved his foot; his shoe left a red imprint on the Asset’s skin. Maybe he was a little bit like Rumlow. He still didn’t see the appeal in fucking the thing, but he was a simple man. He liked violence, in all its different forms. It was the reason he’d been drawn to the armed forces, and ultimately the reason for his dishonorable discharge.

But this? Oh, this would be fun.

“What’re we playing for?” Rumlow asked, already staring at the Asset’s raised ass greedily. His fingers twitched like he couldn’t wait to get started.

“Do the other’s paperwork for a week?” Jack suggested.

“A month,” Rumlow countered.

“Deal.”

They shook on it, and then Jack knelt by the blanket, unwrapping his bundle. He’d found a myriad of items in the little cabin, from a mostly complete tool kit to flashlights to a goddamn baseball bat. It looked like it had seen better days, but Jack wasn’t about to be picky.

It was his game, he reasoned, so he should go first. His fingers hovered over one of the items spread across the worn-out blanket - a pen, about as big around his middle finger. Rumlow scoffed audibly and Jack looked up at him.

“What?” he asked in annoyance. “Gotta start small. I’m not trying to lose in the first round.”

“Please,” Rumlow said with what sounded like disdain. He busied himself pouring more whiskey as he talked. “I’ve seen that thing double spit-roasted multiple times in the same night. It ain’t exactly a blushing virgin.”

As much as he may have hated it, Rumlow had a point. “Fine,” Jack conceded, skipping over the pen and instead choosing a screwdriver. It was a hefty tool, made for large-diameter screws, and the handle was about as thick as an average cock. Of which the Asset could apparently take several, so it was a good start.

Jack momentarily inspected his target before saying to the Asset, “Help me out here.” When there was no response, he took the screwdriver by the handle, driving the shank and head cruelly into the exposed underside of one of the Asset’s feet. That ought to get its attention at least. “Hold it open, dumbass,” Jack ordered.

This time the Asset listened and complied, reaching behind himself with both hands to pull its cheeks apart, exposing it to the cold cabin air. Metal fingers dug harsh furrows into the tender skin of its ass, and without its arms for support, the Asset’s head lay awkwardly against the floor, trying to support its weight with its shoulder and neck. It looked incredibly uncomfortable; Jack could practically feel his own neck muscles twinging just by looking at it.

Wasting no time, Jack opened his mouth and spit. His spittle dripped down the Asset’s hole, partially smoothing the way as Jack pushed the shank of the screwdriver into the tight ring of muscle. Immediately, the Asset went tense, its fingers digging in so hard that the skin of its ass blanched.

“I think it likes it,” Rumlow said gleefully.

Jack pushed the screwdriver in until it was buried up to the handle. The Asset’s hole stretched easily around it. He looked up at Rumlow.

Rumlow didn’t take nearly as much time to pick an object. The mess of tools that Jack had collected included several more of the large screwdrivers, and Rumlow picked up another. This one was a flathead, its blade thin and cruel. As he pushed it in, the Asset made its first noise, a surprised gasp escaping its throat.

The screwdriver came to rest beside Jack’s, and the Asset’s hole was stretched tightly across the two handles. The edges were red and irritated, its skin taut. The blade of the second screwdriver had nicked it somewhere along the way, and blood trickled lightly down the handle, a single drop landing on the floor.

Rumlow raised an eyebrow at Jack. “It’s your game. How about bleeding?”

Jack shook his head and smiled for the first time in the last few hours. “Acceptable.”

It was his turn again. Without warning, he gripped the twin handles and pulled them from the Asset. It gasped even louder this time, the muscles contracting and fluttering with the sudden loss. He’d already picked his next object while Rumlow had been using the screwdriver. He grabbed the flashlight. It was one of those heavy-duty ones; at least as big around as a bottle of water, with enough weight behind it to be a serious weapon in a crisis.

It wasn’t as easy to push in as the screwdriver. The flashlight was blunt and thick at even its narrowest point, and Jack had to push hard against the Asset’s hole. Dutifully, the Asset kept its position, its hands still pulling its cheeks apart. The muscles in its back were tight and tense as it held strong against the force. Finally, the muscle gave way, spreading to accommodate the thick intrusion. A strangled noise came from the Asset’s throat as it entered. Jack grinned and pushed it in further and further, watching as the Asset’s face screwed up in pain, the effort of staying quiet clear on its features.

Rumlow clapped appreciatively, nearly shoving Jack out of the way for his turn. This time he didn’t choose something from the blanket, instead rifling through his own discarded gear until he came up with his baton. Jack sat back and watched, taking another puff on his cigar, as Rumlow pulled out the flashlight. He didn’t give the Asset time to recover before he was forcing the end of the baton into him. He shoved it in hard and deep, and the Asset moaned miserably, the noise coming from somewhere in its chest.

Rumlow laughed and flipped the switch on the end. Jack hadn’t been expecting that, and neither had the Asset. This time it lost its composure, its body seizing as electricity coursed through it. It shrieked, loud and agonizing, the sound almost inhuman. Its hands squeezed so tightly that the metal fingers broke skin, blood welling up around the mark and dripping down its metal wrist. After a few seconds, Rumlow switched the baton back off, the look on his face almost one of disappointment to have to end the torture.

Rumlow pulled the baton from the Asset, and the Asset slumped against the floor, its muscles going limp, but still holding the position it had been commanded to. It was breathing hard, gasping, as tiny aftershocks of electricity twitched through it. Though the baton was gone, its face was still twisted in agony, sweat darkening its hairline. Tears dripped from its eyes to the hardwood floor below.

The baton had given Jack an idea. He took one last puff of his cigar, the cherry at the end burning red-hot. “It might not be bigger,” he said to Rumlow, “but I’ll do you one better.”

The lit end of the cigar slid in easily after the width of the baton, the Asset’s muscle barely resisting the intrusion. Immediately, Jack could smell the stink of burning flesh, hear the faint _sizzle-pop_ , and the Asset screamed. The muscles in its back and neck were corded in its effort not to move, and as Jack pushed the cigar in further, its scream died off. A long, keening noise filled the air, the Asset rocking back and forth, as if involuntary, its body overcoming its mind as it tried to escape the pain.

When Jack pulled the cigar from its hole, bits of blackened, burned skin came with it. He tossed the now-dead cigar to the floor and looked happily at his handiwork. The Asset had started a piteous whimper that was still going, despite the removal of the object. Its eyes, which had gone wild at the pain, were now clenched closed as it sobbed. Its face was wet with tears and snot and sweat, a dark bruise forming where it had dug its forehead against the hard floor in its struggle.

The cigar had been small, so it hardly counted as his turn, Jack decided. Rumlow made no move to stop him as he grabbed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey.

“This’ll cool you off,” he told the Asset, his voice saccharine-sweet and mocking as he upended the contents of the bottle onto the Asset’s abused hole. The Asset didn’t even have it left in him to scream. As the alcohol dripped off of him, Jack pushed the neck of the bottle in firmly. The burn of the alcohol had to have been almost as bad as the cigar, and the Asset’s chest shook as it sobbed silently. The neck of the bottle was skinny, but the glass widened out to a diameter that matched Jack’s outstretched hand, fingertip to the base of his palm. He pushed slowly, watching as the Assets hole stretched and spread around the glass, millimeter by painful millimeter. By the time he got to the base of the bottle, the skin looked stretched to its breaking point. Even the reddest bits of skin had gone white from tension.

No way Rumlow could top this without losing the game. Jack sat back and watched as Rumlow inspected the Asset and seemed to come quickly to the same conclusion. But realizing he was about to lose didn’t seem to dampen Rumlow’s spirits in the slightest. Instead, he went what could only be described as _all in_.

Towering above the Asset, Rumlow gave it a manic grin as he rested the tip of one boot on one of the Assets bruised cheeks, crushing its flesh fingers in the process. He leaned down and yanked out the bottle, giving the Asset barely a second to cry out before he moved in. Taking advantage of the relaxed muscle, Rumlow inched the toe of his boot into the Asset’s hole.

Jack watched, half in disgust, half in morbid fascination. Rumlow’s boots were huge, dirty from hours of work, the treads filled with mud and bits of gravel. He pushed so hard against the Asset that it slid across the floor, the rough wood scraping its knees, shoulder, and face. It was moaning, its voice pitched low at first, but rising in intensity as Rumlow pushed in further and further until nearly the entire tip of his boot was lodged firmly in the Asset’s ass. And then Jack nearly had to turn his head away as Rumlow stomped down with all his strength.

The Asset’s skin gave way, tearing and splitting as it howled in anguish. Its pain seemed to fuel Rumlow’s laughter as he slowly, painfully removed his foot, the tip of his boot covered in bright-red blood. To add insult to injury, he very purposefully lifted his foot and wiped the blood off on one of the Asset’s black and blue cheeks.

The Asset had done an admirable job of following orders, but this apparently, was its limit. It collapsed to the floor, its hands letting go and falling to its side, its ruined hole vanishing from view. It didn’t even try to move, laying on the floor in a broken, miserable heap, blood trickling between its legs to the floor.

“Hope you enjoy my paperwork,” Jack said delightedly as Rumlow took a seat on the couch again, looking pleased with himself.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyeing the crying Asset. “We’ve still got two days. I’m sure we can come up with plenty more games for you to lose.”


End file.
